IslandRoar

Canine Confession

I am about to confess something shocking: I am not crazy about my dog.

You must understand; dogs are big on the Vineyard. They’re everywhere, running on the beach, riding shotgun in passenger seats and truck-beds, waiting patiently for their owners outside stores on Main Street, or trotting by their side at the yearly summer fair.

About fourteen-thousand people live here year round, but there are two dog parks, and that’s in addition to the miles of fields, beaches, and country roads, where every day dogs can be seen blissfully frolicking, devoted owners by their side.

To admit I’m not madly in love with my dog is basically like saying I hate my mother.

Which I don’t. Hate my mother, that is. And I don’t hate my dog either. I may actually love her in some minimally affectionate, obligatory sort of way.

I walk her, feed her, take her to the vet. She has a big yard to run in, food with special additives for her joints, kids to play with, a beach nearby to run and swim. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her; her life’s a party.

It’s just that I expected more. That whole mythical doggie devotion, that Lassie! Timmy’s stuck in the well; go rescue him, deal.

My dog, apparently, hasn’t watched any episodes of Lassie, or read the job description for Family Pet.

When my kids throw the tennis ball, she runs right by it. When we take her to the beach to play in the waves, she retrieves the toy we throw just often enough to lull us into a false sense of security.

Then, as soon as we lob one a bit farther out, she looks at us, unconcealed distain in those big amber eyes, shaking herself off at the water’s edge, and watching with a big doggie smile as her beautiful toy washes away in the waves.

It’s not that she’s a mean dog. She likes everyone. It’s just that she’s completely indifferent. She’d take food over people any day. And she’d knock over any kid or old lady blocking her way to get where she wants to go.

I know if she became accidentally separated from our family, she’d take off with the first person who pulled out a cookie, no questions asked.

Do you remember a few years ago, when a European woman apparently passed out, and her dog, for some reason never really explained, mauled off half her face?

I harbor no illusions. If I were to lie unconscious on my floor for any length of time, my dog might wait a while, until she’d eaten all her food and the cat food, and maybe even the cats themselves (whom she generally likes, by the way). But eventually, she’d get to me.

It wouldn’t be out of spite or viciousness. It’d just be because she’s a dog.

I have this dream of getting a smaller dog one day, a dog I can take with me wherever I go. I call it the “Grandma Dog.” Together we will visit my future grandchildren, who will love and adore it as much as it loves and adores me.

So I guess I haven’t completely given up on the dog-as-devoted-companion myth. In the meantime I’ll try not to advertise too much how I feel. After all, what type of person isn’t crazy about their own dog? What am I, some weird cat lady?

Well…maybe. Okay, yes. I have five. Cats are so simple. One holds such minimal expectations; thus any small show of personality or affection is a pleasant surprise.

But I like to think I live in hope, even when it comes to my dog.

So I’ll keep throwing those tennis balls. Because one day she just might bring one back and drop it at my feet, her big eyes looking up at me with an expression that clearly says, “Go ahead, get trapped in that well if you want. I’m here. I’ve got you covered.”

You never know, right?

A girl can dream.

A Little Sugar...

 

The South Dakota Cowgirl honored me with this blog award recently. If you don't know her, you definitely should. She lives on a huge ranch with her guy Zach, some cattle, and some of the prettiest horses I've ever seen. Her posts are fun and thoughtful, and I make sure to check in with her every day.

Before passing this award along, I''m supposed to share up to 10 fascinating things about myself. Which is pretty hard, because I think you all probably know everything there is to know about me already. Let's see...

-For a short time, around age 8, I wanted to be a nun (yeah, I know; tell me about it). My parents wisely humored me until the inclination passed.

-A couple of years ago I dated a guy, for over a year, who had no sense of smell (are you thinking Blog Post, because I certainly am).

-I have the tiniest wrists I've ever seen in an adult. Really, I'm 5'9" and I have these wrists smaller than most infants. I love bracelets, but finding ones small enough is a challenge.

-I've always been able to do a back-bend, and now that I'm fast approaching old age, I make sure to do one once a year, just to prove I still can. 

-I love long dangly earrings. Although again, as I get older, I have to choose ones that are more lightweight so my earlobes don't end up on my shoulders.

-At family gatherings when I was a kid, my parents had me do impressions for entertainment; I did a great Ed Sullivan and Richard Nixon (who didn't?), as well as two of Lily Tomlin's characters: her telephone operator ("One ringie-dingie"), and Edith Anne.

-I love my feet. Of course it's just my opinion, but I think they're really pretty.

-I had a dream when I was pregnant with all three of my kids that correctly predicted what sex they would be.

 

Okay that's only eight, but I think we can agree it's more than enough. I'd like to pass this award on to the following blogs:

1) Erin at The Locals Love It: She has some great posts about cool places by people who actually live there, as well as useful travel tips and her own very thoughtful reflections on life in general.

2) Lynn at For Love or Funny: She never fails to make me smile.

3) Jill at Stella's Roar: I've been following her for a while now, and she always posts photos of the most beautiful and interesting things, leaving me in a constant state of yearning.

Please take some time and go visit these lovely ladies. You'll be really glad you did.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I am going to take the next few days off and be back on Monday.

 

 

Spin Cycle: Being Thankful

Every year at the holidays my Grandma would sit at the head of the table and gaze fondly out over her very full plate of dinner to the faces of her loved ones spread out before her on either side of the table.

She'd be cajoled into making the first toast and she always said the same thing. "I'm just so happy to have my family gathered around me."

At this, her four grown children would start to laugh. "Oh Mother, here you go again."

They would wave their hands dismissively, the broad smiles on their faces giving away how happy they really were to hear Grandma's predictably mushy words.

These last years, my parents generally fly to Arizona on Thanksgiving to my sister's. With no family nearby, I, like many others, spend the holiday with friends.

They are my neighbors. My Vineyard family. They watch our pets when we go on vacation. They bring us food when we're sick. Our seven children think of one another as cousins.

We have Thanksgiving at their house and then Christmas at our's. We've been doing this for years.

On Thursday they'll make the turkey. The Ex brings his mashed potatoes. I arrive laden in desserts. Pumpkin pie, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, holiday cookies. Sometimes there are miscellaneous friends or family members in attendance. Every year is a little different but the core remains the same.

It will be the first time since August that all three of my children are gathered together at one table. I will look out over our bountiful spread to these faces I so love and, as always, I'll think of my Grandma.

I didn't get it all those years ago. I thought she was being overly sentimental. But I get it now.

Oh yeah, I'm right there with you Grandma.

 

For more Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. Jen always gives us something to be thankful for, no?

 

 

Wounds

One of my children has a friend who is a cutter.

She turns her anxiety and her anger and her pain on herself and leaves marks. On her arms, her legs.

She has a kit especially for this purpose. It contains what appear to be an exacto knife and several blades. I know this because she gave it to my kid once in a bout of optimism. She wasn't going to cut anymore. She was better, she was cured.

Except she wasn't. Within weeks the tide had turned and she was hurting herself once more. I guess she put together a new kit. It's easy enough when you stop to think about it. I look around my kitchen, my bathroom. If you're searching for weapons, there are plenty to be found.

I encouraged my child not to judge this friend too harshly. At some point in our lives we all turn on ourselves, inflicting damage in one way or another.

Many of us have issues with food. Some of us drink or take too much medication. Others seek out or continue relationships with people who abuse us. Emotionally. Psychologically. Physically.

Hopefully we recognize there are people to help us. Friends, professionals. Ourselves. Hopefully we get through it. Sometimes again and again. However many times it takes.

I've been very proud of my own kid for being there for this friend. For being brave enough to yell at her, and loyal enough to stand by her. For never taking on a burden that should only be borne by professionals. And for trusting me enough to keep me in the loop.

We all have scars. I've heard people say that the ones you cannot see are even worse than those you can. But I don't know.

Turning something sharp on your own skin, slicing it open and not understanding why seeing your own blood causes the pain in your heart to momentarily disappear? Then being forever left with a scar to remind you of what you are capable of doing to yourself?

I've seen her scars. They make me want to gather her in my arms and weep.

But she is getting help. Because she's smart and loved and incredibly brave. She will not give up on herself. And neither will we.

 

A Little Bit of Heaven

 

My first serious boyfriend worked in a rectory.

A rectory, for those of you not raised Catholic, is home to the parish priest. Back then, there were three or four of them and they weren't just any priests. They were the same ones I'd seen on the altar since I was a little kid, preaching and sermonizing, sometimes rather heatedly. I never quite got used to sitting there with my boyfriend, laughing and chatting with these same men I'd been raised to respect more than any others.

Now, I realize Catholic priests have gotten a terrible rap these last years, much of it well deserved. But the men I remember were kind and generous, and if occasionally one or two of them were a little authoritative, they were never inappropriate.

My boyfriend, let's call him Antonio (that wasn't his name but it's Italian and Catholic, and he was decidedly both), answered the phones and doorbell and did paperwork at the rectory a couple of evenings a week. I would keep him company.

My parents didn't like it, but what could they say? My father had been an altar boy till he was 18, and both of them had gone to Catholic school. They couldn't really complain about their daughter hanging out in a rectory. Although I do think they may have been the tiniest bit jealous when the priests started giving me Communion by name each Sunday ("Body of Christ, Maureen"). They may have been better Catholics, but only I was on a first name basis with the parish priests.

Those sacred men must have been bummed that I was stacking the deck against Antonio's becoming a priest one day, but over time they grew fond of me.

The housekeeper was another story. Matilda didn't like me at all. In fact, I think she hated me. That may have been because she was a 75 year-old virgin who hated the thought of another woman of any age being in her rectory, competing for the attention of her men.

Or maybe it was because my boyfriend and I would slip into the front office of the rectory at night and make out in the dark. Every chance we got.

I think she might have come looking for us a time or two when she could no longer hear the sound of our voices drifting into the kitchen. I can't be sure because she never confronted us, but I'm assuming she caught us performing several of what to her would have been most unholy acts.

She went from barely tolerating me to being downright rude. She told the pastor I was keeping Antonio from getting his work done. Which was blatantly false; he did his work twice as fast when I was there so that we'd have time to sneak into the office and make out. The pastor, in fact all the priests, rallied to our side.

"Matilda's just old fashioned," the pastor confided. He tapped one finger on the side of his head. "And maybe a little...well, you know."

Poor Matilda. I'm sure she was convinced I was going to Hell (not Antonio of course, just me).

And who knows? Maybe I am. Maybe God has a huge problem with horny teenagers sneaking around a rectory. Looking for their own little piece of paradise.

But I'm not really worried. Either way, it was absolutely worth it. Swear to God.

 

 

 

Family Time: Mandatory

Are you, like me, your family's Cruise Director?

I used to think this job description only applied when they were younger. But I've realized recently how much more important the job is now that my kids have one foot out the door. If I didn't plan ahead and inform them that participation is mandatory it would never happen.

My own parents pretty much gave up on the concept of Family Time when my sister and I became teenagers. I can understand why.

My kids grumble and complain. They recite a hundred reasons why it won't work for them. "I can't get off work for a whole weekend." "I have too much homework." "I have my own life too, you know." I've heard it all.

But as I saw us scattering in several different directions a few years ago, I realized that the days we have left for Family Time are numbered. I decided then not to listen to their objections. For any and all excuses they throw my way, I counter with only this: Make it Work.

My goal is not to make them miserable. It's to make memories. Maybe if I was still married it wouldn't be so important to me; maybe I'd be relishing the couple-alone time after all that parenting.

But I've found that by enforcing Mandatory Family Time, my jaded older kids wind up having a blast. Whisked away from their outside lives and personas, old sibling alliances are rekindled, and new ones have a chance to ignite.

Well worn family jokes resurface, although we  inevitably wind up with new zingers for the memory book. Like the time Daughter #2 innocently read aloud a sign on a Florida highway as we drove by: Hooters, where everyone gets their own cheerleader. She was about 12 and had no idea what Hooters was. But her 16 and 19 year-old siblings did, and that line is now a family classic.

The idea is simple: Keep it brief. A long weekend may work better than a week for a mini family vacation.

Don't overschedule: I'm planning a mandatory hike up-island for the day after Thanksgiving this year. If the weather tanks, I have a DVD as backup. But I would never try both for the same day when they're only here a couple of days.

Don't ban technology: You can't fight City Hall but do use your discretion. I allow computers and cell phones. But only during down-time or at the end of the day, not in the middle of a car ride through the rain forrest in Puerto Rico.

It's important to remember that they will complain about being forced to spend time with the family. It's pretty much their job. Check your sensitivity at the door. Last summer, my kids kvetched right up until we left for our long weekend in New Jersey. Yet they're still talking about how much fun they had.

In fact, since realizing these family "adventures" aren't going away, they've taken to emailing me links for possible things to do and places to go. We booked the hotel for our mini ski vacation this year based on a suggestion from Daughter #1.

One day maybe not too far off I'm looking forward to handing off the mantle of Cruise Director to them. Then all I'll need to do is go along for the ride.

Do you think, when that day comes, they'll get the joke if I show up with my arms folded, cell phone in hand, eyes rolling belligerently? Nah, I wouldn't really do that. Someone's got to at least pretend to be the mature one, right?

Best Blog Award

 

SuziCate, a new bloggy friend of mine from over at The Water Witch's Daughter gave me this nifty award. If you don't know her blog you should definitely check it out. I find her observations and reflections on life straightforward and delightful.

The only rule is to pass it along to up to 5 bloggers. So here goes:

1) A Widow for One Year: I've been following her blog for a couple of months now. She's an awesome writer who has made me both laugh and cry on several occasions. 

2) Lynn at Allegria Images: She's in the process of taking and posting a photo a day for the next year, and she's quite entertaining along the way.

3) Deb at Menopausal New Mom: A very recent and fun discovery for me. The title of her blog in itself intrigued the heck out of me, and I'm really enjoying her writing.

Please check out these bloggers. Now would be a really good time.

 

 

Spin Cycle: My Hero

Hero is a word thrown about rather casually these days. Athletes and celebrities seem to be everyone's new heroes.

But in my opinion, real acts of heroism are done quietly and without fanfare every day by the most unassuming people. Someone I always think of is a boy I really didn't even know, who stepped into my life for one brief interval on an autumn day long ago.

I was in seventh grade, that awful age for girls when all your nerve endings seem to live outside your body and every emotion is magnified by at least 50.

It was right after school. There were two very small injured squirrels in the street in front of my house. I was never sure how they got there. Could they both somehow have fallen out of their nest, which was in the tall tree by the curb, or were they hit, somewhat unbelievably, by the same car?

At any rate, to my mind it was a scene of horror. One lay freshly smushed, which was sad enough. But even worse, the other squirrel, who was also severely injured, was still very much alive, and flailing about pitifully in the street.

It was unable to get far and obviously not going to live. I was hysterical. I wanted my mother to DO something, anything, to help this tragic little creature. I remember standing there with her and some neighborhood kids, helplessly watching it for what seemed like hours but was probably more like minutes. With a stick, we pushed it to the side of the road so it wouldn't get hit by another car.

"Can't we bring it to the vet?" I implored.

But, "No," my mother said gently. There was nothing we could do to save him.

"We have to do something," I insisted.

And then he appeared. He was just a boy, probably no more than 16, walking home from school down our street with a couple of friends. He came upon us standing there and stopped. I'm sure I was still weeping.

He looked at the squirrel and then raised his big, dark eyes to my mother. "Do you have a shovel?"

Gently he scooped the animal onto the metal snow shovel my mother brought him. "You wait here," he said to me.

"He has a lot of courage," my mother told me, as we watched him disappear behind our garage. "This is the right thing to do, but that doesn't make it any easier."

He emerged moments later, his face somber as he handed the shovel back to my mother.

"He's not suffering anymore," my mother announced.

The boy smiled sadly at me, and he and his friends continued on their way.

The other kids and I tentatively headed back behind the garage to search out the grave. It wasn't hard to find. On top of the small patch of freshly packed earth, he'd thought to leave two small rocks to mark the spot.

I never even knew his name. And I never saw him again.

But I'll never forget him.

 

 

For more Spins on Heroism,  go straight to Sprite's Keeper.

22

First-Born Son turns 22 this month. 22.

At 22 I was out of college and working in the hospital as an RN. I was hanging blood, starting IV's, and calling doctors in the middle of the night, telling them what needed to be done for their patients.

I was still 22 when I transferred to the pediatric unit and started caring for sick, and sometimes dying, children.

I felt so old, so completely grown up. And now I look at my son, all six feet, five inches of him, and realize what a kid I still was. But I was on my way.

Like him I had my own apartment with a roommate. But no longer a student, I paid my own rent. I paid my bills, bought my car, and took on my first cat. Oh, I still hauled my wash over to my parents' house, twenty minutes away, every other week, to use their machines while they were at work.

I may have gone through the cabinets and checked out the attic and basement while I was there as well, searching for anything I could "borrow" to use in my own place.

I had my parents over for dinner and I did not serve them spagettios or tuna fish. I bought a television and a rocking chair.

I didn't know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life except write, and already I felt the constraints of work and time affecting that.

I felt like I needed to act. A year later I was in the middle of making plans to move out west to be a nurse on a Native American Indian reservation when I met The Ex. I never went.

I don't have any regrets. But I'm glad First-Born Son is in a different place at 22. I want him to know he has time. Plenty of time.

He's  doing something he loves. In a place he loves. The rest will work out, one way or another. It always does. He's on his way.

What were you doing at 22?

Spin Cycle: Turning 3

Because Sprite's birthday is coming up, Jen has made this week's Spin Cycle an open forum. So when you get done here, you should check it out.

Sprite is turning three. Which got me thinking. Three is such a magical age. No longer a baby but still so small.

When each of my two daughters turned three, I had to stick them on a school bus and send them off to special pre-k programs.

Now, I grew up in suburban New Jersey and walked to school every day. And when my kids started school, I drove them or we carpooled with neighbors. Except for field trips, I had no experience putting anyone on a school bus. Let alone my tiny, just-turned-three year-old daughters who, except for my parents and a couple of trusted friends and sitters, had essentially never been out of my sight.

Daughter #1 was born with Benign Hypotonia, basically a muscle weakness causing significant delays in her gross motor skills. She didn't roll over for a year, she walked at two, and rode a bike at 12.

Daughter #2 had her speech and hearing issues. Both girls were fortunate to be eligible for excellent pre-k programs modeled for their particular needs. These included door-to-door transportation.

I drove Daughter #1 her first couple of days. But I was seven months pregnant, sick and exhausted, and D #1 wanted to take the bus with her friends. 

I thought I would throw up the first time the big yellow bus pulled up in front of our house and I clipped her into the car seat on board. I waved as it pulled away, then hopped in my car and followed it all the way to her school. I needed to see just how traumatized she would be by the time  she got there.

Instead, she was smiling, proudly carrying her little backpack as she was helped down the steps and led by the hand into her classroom. I, on the other hand, was shaking and nauseous, and could've used a shot of something strong (damn that pregnancy ban on alcohol!).

I never got used to putting her on the bus, but it did become a part of our routine. And after Daughter #2 was born, it was pretty nice not to have to haul her out two extra times each day for the pre-k run.

When it became apparent D #2 needed a special school for her auditory issues, the fact that I would be putting her on a bus, while no less traumatic, was a no-brainer. Her school was farther away, and between getting the other kids fed and out the door to their school on time, the bus (or van in her case) was a life saver.

Then again, she was my third child and I was more laid back. I only followed the van her first day. Although there was that time I passed it on our block as I was on my way home from picking up the other two kids from school. The cops had pulled it over for speeding.

I'd already reported the incident to her school and was waiting in my driveway, arms folded, foot tapping, by the time the driver finally made his way up the road to drop her off. He didn't appear very sorry but no matter; there was a new driver the next day and speed was never an  issue again.

I look back now, amazed that I was able to place these two small girls on a school bus at such a tender age. Part of me still shrieks, what were you thinking! But most of me realizes that at the time I simply could not take one more thing onto my plate.

And somehow, they have both survived.

So congratulations to both of you, Jen, on Sprite's turning three. Does that make her a big girl, or still a baby in your eyes?

I have no idea, but judging how I feel about my own little girls, now 15 and 18, my guess is that it's probably a bit of both.

 

At A Loss (part two)

 

If you haven't read Part One of this post, you can find it here.

 

After she got her hearing aids, Daughter #2's speech grew by big fat leaps and bounds.

In those first few weeks, she would cock her head to the side, exclaiming, "I hear sum-tin!" Then run to the door or window to check out what it was. I couldn't believe how much she'd been missing.

I steered myself for the years to come, the negotiations I would need to engage in, and the accommodations that would be necessary for her in the school system. In life. The uphill battle certain things would be for her, things I had so taken for granted with my other kids.

Do you know some people treat children with hearing aids like they're mentally disabled or slow? Yeah, they do. And some people are uncomfortable at the mere site of a kid with hearing aids.

Fairly or not, I came to judge my older children's friends by how they handled D #2's disability.

"Is she retarded?" One little boy asked, sneering. As though she wasn't even in the room. STRIKE OUT.

"What's your sister got in her ears?" another asked.

"Those are her hearing aids." I could see First-Born Son almost holding his breath as he said this. "To help her hear."

"Oh." The boy shrugged. "Like bionic ears. Cool." HOME RUN.

I started saving for the tiny, but enormously expensive, hearing aids that would fit inside her ear and be practically invisible, the kind the audiologist assured me would be perfect for her as an adolescent.

Then, before she turned five, on a routine audiogram, her hearing tested almost normal. We'd been going every three or four months, to our same amazing audiologist, Ellen, each time.

Ellen didn't know what to make of it. Neither did the specialists she sent us to in Manhattan.

"I guess you might call it a miracle," one doctor said. "Except I don't believe in miracles."

The director of her school took me aside and quietly suggested that I not share what had happened with the other parents; she didn't want to encourage false hope.

Today, D #2 still has fluctuations in her hearing and does much better if she can look at someone as they speak, but she no longer wears hearing aids. She sits in the front of the class by choice, and she works really hard to overcome the learning difficulties she has as a result of those early years. Really hard.

And really successfully. She is driven in a way my two other children never had to be. She wants it. Bad.

This then, is my very un-scientific theory to explain what happened: I was so sick for that entire pregnancy. I only gained 13 pounds, and she was 7lbs, 14oz, with the biggest placenta the nurses had ever seen. Looking back, I think I may have had some viral infection that was passed on to her, affecting her hearing.

Unknowingly, I continued to pass on this virus to her through the next year and a half of nursing. Gradually, after she was weaned, the virus dissipated, leaving only residual damage, in the form of fluctuations in her hearing.

At least, that's my attempt at a logical explanation.

But as for what I really think happened?

Well, let's just say that, unlike that doctor, I do believe in miracles.

Wouldn't you?

At A Loss (part one)

The following story will be told over the next two posts.

 

Daughter #2 was born hearing impaired.

We had no idea of this at the time. All I knew was that her cry was the most high-pitched, piercing sound I had ever heard.  I was a pediatric nurse and she was my third child; I knew my newborn cries (I later learned this cry is common in newborns with hearing loss).

As she grew, we would lean in, cup our hand to her ear, and murmur, "Sssp-ssp-ssp," like we were telling her a secret. We called it the "Whisper Game," and I'd played it with all my kids. They loved it, and eventually, at about a year, leaned over to "whisper" a secret back to me.

D #2 did the same thing. Except she merely opened and closed her tiny lips, never uttering a sound. Foolishly, I found this quirky and adorable, not realizing she wasn't making the whisper sound because she couldn't hear it.

"That baby looks at your face so intently when you speak," my mother would say. Of course; she was trying to read our lips, attempting to make sense of the jumbled sounds she was able to hear.

I should've known. My two older children had spoken several words by the time they turned one and were chattering away by two.

There is a video of D #2 on Easter, only weeks before her second birthday. She picks up a candy egg and says "num-num." And I nearly erupt with joy. "Do you hear that? She said num-num," I inform the camera. "She means candy!"

That video will never be easy for me to watch.

Thinking maybe she just needed speech therapy like her cousins, I took her for an evaluation. Part of this was a routine audiological screening.

It was anything but routine. I held her while the audiologist directed sounds through speakers into our soundproof booth. As they grew higher in frequency, D #2 sat in my lap, thumb in her mouth, oblivious.

There was shock, guilt, sadness. Not necessarily in that order.

But other people took it harder than I did.  As an RN I knew what was out there: brain tumors, cancer, diabetes, cerebral palsy...

Hearing loss? We could do that.

I got her enrolled in a special school for kids with speech and hearing issues. I wove multi-colored friendship bracelets to clip her hearing aids onto the collar of her clothing with so they wouldn't get lost. I learned to use my stethoscope to test her aids and batteries each morning. Taught the babysitter, The Ex, and First-Born Son how to put them in and turn them on.

The first time she cupped her hand against my ear and "whispered"  to me with real "sssp-ssp-ssp" sounds, I nearly cried with relief. With her aids, her hearing was almost normal. Other kids at her school were not nearly so lucky.

My mother was appalled whenever I put her hair in ponytails. "But then everyone will see her hearing aids," she complained. "Don't you want to hide them?"

"She wears hearing aids," I said. "This is her life. If we don't accept it, how will she?"

More next post...

All Grown Up

I got some new furniture last weekend. A couch for my family room, a love seat for my living room. And a leather recliner. In general, not a big fan of leather recliners myself, but let's just say I bought it to make a couple of other people very happy. Because apparently, that is what I live for.

My new furniture makes me irrationally content. I sneak downstairs and peek in on it as though I expect to catch it doing something it shouldn't be doing. But the love seat is just sitting there, where I left it, after about 200 different attempts at arranging it, that is. The couch too (the recliner, I'm not so sure; I think it may be something of a trouble-maker).

I see them there, and I have the urge to clap, and exclaim out loud "Yay!" I may, in fact, have actually done this. Several times.

Don't judge me too severely. Come on, admit it. You know how I feel.

Remember when we were kids and our parents purchased something boring like furniture or an appliance? I thought they were crazy to get excited over items that were clearly so mundane. Or maybe they were just old.

Although actually, an appliance was always fun because it came in a huge cardboard box. Which my parents would allow us to play with for a few days before they got rid of it. All the neighborhood kids would gather in our driveway and take turns closing each other up in the box. Which we'd then knock over, pushing and kicking it around the driveway while the person inside laughed and screamed for his or her life.

Ah, good times...

These days, I prefer the appliance to the box. I guess that means I'm old. Or maybe crazy. Or perhaps, just a grownup.

I recall when The Ex and I were in our 20's and we bought our first house, and then our first refrigerator, washer, and dryer. I was genuinely thrilled to own these things. But I was also confused that I could be so thrilled over appliances versus say, shoes or books or a vacation in Bermuda.

Then I realized what had happened. I'd become a grownup. And the definition of a grownup, apparently, is one who is able to find ridiculous fulfillment in appliances. As well as furniture.

Don't even get me started on flooring and counter tops.

How about you?

 

"Hello? Here I Am..."

Last June when my parents were here, we were driving home from Daughter #1's high school graduation.

"God," my father commented, "what some of those kids accomplish is unbelievable." He shook his head. "The talent some people have."

Excuse me, I wanted to say. Some people? You mean, like your own granddaughter, the one sitting here right next to you, by the way, who graduated in the top five percent of her class? Who got accepted into some pretty amazing colleges? Who sang in Austria, won national awards, and will be dancing in her recital next week?

But I knew it would do no good. In that moment it all came flooding back. Growing up, my sister and I were subject to a continuous litany of how pretty/talented/smart our friends were. Meanwhile there we were, standing right in front of them.

My sister struggled a little in school, but she ran the Booster Club, was on the yearbook staff, and donned the bear costume of our school mascot for football games. She worked her butt off at her after-school job, and never got into trouble.

Success starts with a mindset. I believe, without a doubt, that we can be as spectacular as we decide we are. I've always felt this.

I remember wanting to jump up and down in front of my parents, waving my arms to get their attention.

Hello? It's me, your daughter who's starring in the school play? The one who's graduating at the top of her class and working 20 hours a week in a nursing home? Can you see me?

Did you ever feel this way?

For a long time their remarks made me jealous. I'd want to snap back: Yeah, you think so-and-so is that great? You should see what a bitch she can be. Or defend myself to them: Hey, I can do that too. Just give me a chance. But I never did.

As I got older I realized they had no idea they were creating this resentment. They'd be shocked to know our feelings had ever been hurt by their remarks. Yet still I struggle, hearing them go on about other people's grandchildren, how beautiful and talented they are, what colleges they got into. Why is it so hard for them to believe they have shining stars right in their own family?

"Do you really think Daughter #1 can be a doctor?" my mother asked not long ago.

"Why couldn't she?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

"It takes so long. And you have to work so hard," she went on. Meanwhile, her brother and three of my cousins are physicians. Does she think they possess some spectacular gene that is absent in her own offspring?

"I think," I said carefully, "that she can be whatever she decides she wants to be."

And I really really do.

Spin Cycle: Parental Confessions

 

I wasn't going to take part in this week's Spin because (choose one of the following):

    a) I am such a perfect parent that I have nothing to confess.
    b) My parenting confessions are so deep and dark that they cannot be 
        released into the blogosphere.

Then I realized I did have one confession I might be willing to share. And that is: I have every intention of one day being my grandchildren's favorite grandparent. And I don't care what I have to do to achieve this goal.

No, I am not yet a grandmother, and if things go as planned, I shouldn't be for at least several years too come. But when I do become one, any other grandparents the kid may have, whether real, step, or adopted, better watch out.

When my son was in high school, for a time he had a very serious girlfriend. He seemed to spend every waking moment with her and often her family. They treated him as extravagantly as they did their own kids. Presents were ridiculously expensive and always carried a designer label. Clearly they were bent on making a certain impression.

"He better not marry her," I complained to The Ex. "We'll be the schmo grandparents. I'll be baking cookies with our grandchild and they'll sweep in with tickets to Disney World. Or I'll plan a trip to Disney World and they'll take the kid to Hawaii. I can't compete with that."

"Who's getting married?" He stared at me blankly. "What are you talking about?"

Of course they eventually broke up, but not before I'd carefully thought it through, and bestowed on my imaginary future grandchildren the uncanny ability to spot any and all phony displays of affection (imaginary grandchildren are convenient that way).

I'll be the Fun Grandma, I decided. The one they stay up late with watching movies. The one who takes them sledding and chases them around the playground. The one who lets them make messes in the kitchen and splash water out of the bathtub.

I'll take them on special Grandma Vacations and spend one-on-one time with each of them. Then, when they're in high school or college, they can get a job out here summers and stay with me. What kid, after all, doesn't want to spend their summer on the Vineyard?

Let those other grandparents just try to compete with that.

Whew, simply writing all those plans exhausted the hell out of me. I may need to reconsider. Maybe it's easier to be the grandma who visits and sits regally in her chair, passing out 20's.

What do you think? What kind of grandparent do you plan on being?

Either way, I bet we'll all rock.

 

Now slink on over to Sprite's Keeper to read some more Parenting Confessions.

Blog Award

A blogger I am very fond of, Jane, over at Theycallmejane's Blog, was kind enough to bestow this award on me a couple of weeks ago. Jane's blog is clever and honest, and I make sure to check in there every day.

Before passing this award on, I am supposed to share 7 random things about myself. I am so bad at this but here goes:

-I always wanted to be an actress. I have a secret hankering for the stage and plan on getting back to community theater when Daughter #2 goes off to college (I know, I've said that one before; I told you I was bad at this).

-In 5th grade I brought a baby picture of me to school and told everyone I had a baby sister. Wishful thinking I guess. I probably also wanted to see how many people I could get to believe me. I confessed the truth only days later.

-I wrote my first complete novel when I was 11 (and no, it's not available at Barnes & Noble).

-I am addicted to the TV shows Lost and Friday Night Lights. Okay, and America's Next Top Model, but that is secret info that is not to be shared beyond this page.

-One of my dreams is to go live in Ireland for at least 6 months one day and work on a novel.

That's it. Only 5, I know. Just deal with it.

 

The 3 bloggers I would like to pass this award on to are:

-Mama Badger over at out of the boondocks and into the burbs... : Been following her blog for a while now. She never fails to make me smile.

-Ocean Girl at Live High: A fairly new discovery. Her world couldn't be more different than mine, and I am intrigued by everything she has to say.

-Heather at Welch Happenings: Also a new discovery. She has a friendly, open style of writing that always leaves me feeling like we've just sat down together for a cup of coffee.

Okay. Now go check out these women, and say hi from me.

 

Death-Defining

For her Freshman Seminar at college, Daughter #1 is taking a class on death and dying. Because she is just that lighthearted, laugh-a-minute type of girl.

As an assignment, students had to interview a person who has dealt with death as part of their work. D #1 took the easy way out and chose me.

She called me late the other night and grilled me for a half hour about my experiences as an RN working with dying patients. I don't know how she felt about it afterward, since she's about as forthcoming as the CIA, but I found the experience enlightening.

One of the questions was did I feel that working with the dying had changed my attitude about death. I didn't really think I could answer that. See, I started working in a nursing home at 16, long before I'd thought much about death at all. I have to say I'd been pretty sheltered from death; I'd never even been to a funeral.

From that, I was thrust into this world where it was commonplace for at least a couple of patients to die each month, often when I was on duty, and frequently requiring me to do post-mortem care, which basically involves washing and wrapping the body before it's transported to the funeral parlor or morgue.

I continued to work with elderly patients through college and my early days as an RN. Then I moved to pediatrics, where I had to readjust my views toward death to include young people, even children and babies. It was difficult but I considered it a privilege to work with these patients and their families. A blessing even.

As hard as it is to conceive of, I came to believe some people can live a life filled with more purpose and meaning in 8 or 18 years than others might in well over 80. I'm not saying it ever got any easier to see kids die. But I did start to see age as only one factor (albeit a significant one) in the big picture of death.

Another question Daughter #1 had was whether I thought doctors and nurses viewed death differently.

"Like night and day," I told her.

Generally speaking, physicians have an adversarial relationship with death, even those working with the terminally ill. And that's probably as it should be. Most of us count on our doctors to help us fight like crazy to avoid death.

Nurses, on the other hand, are more often the ones present when death occurs. And while we rarely welcome it, we learn to accept it as an inevitability. Having seen enough of it, we realize it's not always fearsome. And in some cases, when we know it's coming, it can even be poignant and memorable.

Don't misunderstand me. I realize the gaping difference between dealing with death on a professional versus a personal level. For all the dying I've witnessed, I've still been incredibly sheltered from it in my own life so far.

And when that changes, as it obviously will, I can only hope some tiny bit of the strength and courage I have witnessed in those I've cared for might be found within myself.

Virtual Parenting

My son called me from his cell phone the other day. He was walking on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, shopping for a Halloween costume. He wanted me to find him a certain costume store on-line and tell him how to get there.

So, from my couch in my house on Martha's Vineyard, I directed him to a couple of places within blocks from where he was. Next, I transferred the necessary funds right then and there on-line into his account so he could make the purchase.

I still find all this technology pretty trippy at times. It can bring people together in incredible ways.

I had to laugh a couple of weeks ago when Daughter #1 called from college to tell me she had just downloaded Skype onto her laptop. Skype, for those of you as technologically challenged as I, is pretty much a live video-chat via computer.

Since I have it on my laptop too, Daughter #1 wanted me to video-call her. But wait; not, as one might naturally assume, so she could see her much-longed-for and loving mother, but rather, so I could show her the dog and cats, significant beings she is apparently pining away for.

Then, the night before we went off to Parent's Weekend, she had me do the Skype thing again, this time carrying my laptop upstairs here on the Vineyard to her bedroom, and holding it in front of her closet so she could see and tell me what clothing she wanted me to bring to her at school.

"Show me the scarves behind my door," she ordered impatiently. "Hold that one up. No, not that one. Yeah, that one."

It was arduous work. I think I prefer the telephone.

"Why are you in your pajamas already," she demanded. "It's too early. You need a life."

It was enough to make me want to shut the laptop lid in, or literally on, her face.

Technology is an awesome thing. But I shudder to think what might be next.

Perhaps my kids won't come home for Thanksgiving dinner; we'll just put laptops on the table in the places they should be sitting, and we'll Skype our way through the turkey and cranberry sauce.

Maybe the pumpkin pie will be virtual? Less calories, yes, but I'm not so sure about the taste...